“We’ll go over the holidays. Tinseng won’t be teaching then!” Chiboon exclaimed, scribbling the idea into his notebook; everyone would forget this but him, and the seed would germinate in those pages until the idea became a plan, and the plan became a reality. That was the role Chiboon had always played in their group, taking their offhand dreams and turning them, alchemy-like, into experience.
By the time the party broke up and scattered back to their rooms, Tinseng was very pleasantly drunk, his tongue loose, mind fuzzy. He loved his friends, he really did. He loved his family too—he told Cheuk-Kwan this as he left, punching his brother’s arm and receiving a punch in return. Jinzhao’s hand hovered near the small of his back as he led him into the hall, and oh, he loved Jinzhao, loved him most of all. He wanted to tell him, but he wasn’t that drunk: he could still remember Jinzhao’s face when Yukying had mentioned being part of their family. Shock, Tinseng thought, he’d seen shock and fear. And why not—wasn’t that what Tinseng felt, too, when he thought of family? Hadn’t he run halfway around the world because of it? The drink made his thoughts sprint in front of him, and he fell asleep wanting to wrap his arms around Jinzhao, feeling cold without him.
The sixth day of their cruise saw them in Málaga. Málaga was a port like Lisbon with historical attractions and crowded beaches, a place to linger. Their group followed Chiboon’s lead first to Alcazaba, a Moorish castle, then to a soaring Renaissance cathedral. Surely they were wonders of the world, but Tinseng couldn’t focus on any of it. Yesterday Yukying had planned to talk to Marissa Grodescu, and this morning they hadn’t really had the time to talk. Tinseng was waiting for a good moment to draw her aside, and until then he wouldn’t be able to think of much else.
They walked out of the cathedral and wandered around the town, splitting up as moods took them. Chiboon had been expecting mail at the post office, and when he returned, he hurried up to Tinseng.
“Tinseng, you have to help me,” Chiboon said, clutching him dramatically. Tinseng exchanged a bemused look with Jinzhao.
“I do? Why?”
“My Spanish friends canceled on me tonight; their message just caught up with me. I have to go, and you know I can’t go alone.”
“He’s planning on going to Fauna in Torremolinos,” Tinseng explained to Jinzhao.
“The most famous gay bar in Spain,” Chiboon told Jinzhao, “about a half-hour drive from Málaga. I’ve been hearing about it for months. I already rented a car. I have to go, Tinseng, and you have to come with me, please.”
Tinseng shrugged. “I really don’t. We’re tired.”
“Tinseng, you don’t understand! Brian Epstein brought John Lennon there in May! I’ll eat off this story for months.” Chiboon hung on Tinseng’s arm. “I never ask you for anything—”
“Not true—”
“Do this one thing for me, gege, please?”
Tinseng wrapped an arm around Chiboon and pulled him close, only to say firmly, “No.”
“You’re a criminal.” Chiboon stomped away in a huff.
“Not yet,” Tinseng muttered to Jinzhao. Jinzhao laughed quietly and held the door of a bookstore open for him. A few minutes later, Yukying found them among the high shelves.
“What do you think of this for a-die?” He held up a book on chess.
“I don’t know, Tinseng.” Yukying didn’t even look at the book. “Please listen.”
Quickly she told them what Marissa had said yesterday.
“So,” Tinseng said, “He plans to follow us and has business in Barcelona. We can work with that. Did she say which post office?”
Yukying shook her head.
“Well, that’s okay. We’ll split up. While we’re here, let’s try to find a map of Barcelona. How many post offices could there be?”
“And what about Grodescu trying to follow you?” She placed a hand on his arm. “What are you going to do?”
“He’ll have to find us first. What can he do on the ship, jie? It’s a locked room mystery: he knows they’ll be able to figure out it was him.”
“If the photos are on him, won’t you have to get close?”
“We will. But we have days until Villefranche.” She didn’t look reassured. He took her hand off his arm and held it in both of his. “It’s fine, Yukying, really! Don’t worry about me. Come on, let’s buy this for a-die, I think he’ll really like it.”
They bought a stack of books and reemerged into the Spanish sunlight. Coming out of a café across the street, Chiboon crossed over to them, gathering himself to begin an entire campaign of wheedling. Thinking of how he might avoid his friend’s request, Tinseng caught a glimpse of Yukying walking down the street. It sparked a thought: Marissa had said Grodescu meant to follow them. But what if he couldn’t?
He cut off Chiboon’s pleading before it could start. “Hey, Chiboon, the place you’re going tonight. They don’t let just anyone in, right?”
“No, you have to know someone. They’re very particular, with Franco and everything; they have to be. It isn’t exactly France. Even England’s more open than here, in some ways, which is really saying something.”
“So not just anyone can walk in? They couldn’t beat a password out of someone?”
“What? No, no, no, nothing like that. That’s why it’s so special that I’m inviting you!”
Tinseng nodded, pleased. Let Lucas Grodescu try to follow them there.
“Then . . . take us with you, won’t you, Chiboon?”
“What, really?” He narrowed his eyes. “Just like that?”
“What can I say? I’m feeling benevolent.”
“You’re the best! Thank you! You won’t regret it. It’s going to be incredible, unforgettable, absolutely the highlight of Spain.”
“What is?” They turned as one to see Cheuk-Kwan, beach bag in hand.
“Uhhh… . . .” Chiboon, whose lying ability hadn’t improved one iota in his years away, flailed spectacularly.
“A very scandalous cabaret,” Tinseng quickly covered. “Far too risqué for a respectable doctor to be seen at.”
“Is everyone else going?”
